


An Iscariotic Affliction of Sorts

by frankthony



Category: My Chemical Romance, frerard - Fandom
Genre: Action, Anger, Bandom - Freeform, Death, Depression, Fear, FrankIero, Frerard, GerardWay, Guns, Intimidation, Killing, M/M, MCR, Suicidal Tendencies, Violence, bandfic, mychem, mychemicalromance - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:50:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1506089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankthony/pseuds/frankthony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One gun.<br/>One night.<br/>One man.<br/>One blow to the back of his head.<br/>Frank Iero's life is about to change in ways he never thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 - Jersey

The rare azure Jersey sky betrayed its very appearance, seemingly comforting and inviting on the outside, yet under the exterior, it was everything but. Awashed with the unsynchronized movements of clouds blanketing the hard-to-distinguish true colour of the sky, the atmosphere could have been warm and sunny and happy- but it wasn't. Knives of sharp and sinister wind cut through the small Jersey town underneath the sky, on its inhabitants, leaving most shivering in this uninviting temperature. Most days the skyline was orchestrated with a bleak and gray colour, somewhat, if not representing the town that survived below. They didn't live, if you wanted the naked truth. They simply survived, most of the individuals there going on about their separate lives, with barely a splash of colour. Dull canvas would have been a highly apt phrase to use upon these. Some days the town looked deceivingly close to the sky, almost as if holding it up with herculean strength, which probably explained the bleakness of the town, what with holding up the entire world's problems on its shoulders, like it held up the sky.

It was a early November, drawing close to December, Winter, and Christmas, yet not quite there, as if indecisively balancing at the crossroads of seasons. The mixture of an upcoming depressive winter, with its chills which you couldn't ever shake out, and that of the season of dying plants, trees, flowers, never seemed to work well together, worsening the already drab lifestyle of those living in this town.

It wasn't a very good one too. Belleville, New Jersey was probably one of the most dangerous places in the country. Most children here had next to no idea what it was like to run without constrictions in this place, their parents' iron fist resting heavily upon the weary shoulders of them. No one blamed them, albeit the supposedly cruel loss of childhood, but then again, something missing was barely felt unless you'd had it before, and then lost it. Most children had never had any freedom. Even in the stark light of the day, children were imprisoned at home, left to the foundations of their imaginations to conjure up some imaginary place to live in, and develop their own thoughts. The danger was reinforced often by a murder happening once a month, sometimes even a fortnight. Soon though, life seemed to go back to normal, if the term normal did actually exist. More often than not, even when these killings by psychotic, crazed souls took place, be it for revenge or the sheer hell of it, (they were crazy, remember?) newspapers would ignore it, from past experiences, learning it was pointless to report, for most people had grown accustomed to the danger around them, they simply lived with it, shrugging it. Unless it was that of a loved one, most news of murders simply were met a more polite than shocked gasp, or a concerned nod, as if this minuscule gesture of attention could express but a little sympathy for the unlucky soul chosen to face damnation on that very day. It was a common thing, everyone supposed, now hardly met with surprise or horror.

Often, bodies had been found at a particular bridge, built within close proximity of the park. It seemed a rather unfair place for those bodies to turn up, so close to the play areas of children, what with parks supposedly being the haven of every child; they were supposed to be places of assurance where young children would go to and mess about, like the screeching imps they were, ignoring the well meaning, yet invasive calls of their guardians. Of course, it wasn't the bodies' fault, they hadn't chose to turn up there. Heck, given a choice, they probably hadn't even chosen to be dead. The blame couldn't be pin pointed at any certain people, perhaps because it was simply a side effect of living in Belleville, New Jersey, being the kind of dirty which couldn't be cleaned off by simply issuing new laws or implementing more officers around the area. Sure, it helped, but it seemed that as soon as the existing bad guys were caught, new ones sprang up in their place, taking over, at times more ruthless, unafraid of the law; it was an unbreakable vicious cycle, and most knew it. Belleville was stained, no amount of work or effort could change its drab and bleak environment, its crime stained past, and its terrible reputation, the stuff of horror stories parents told to their children to keep them from misbehavior.

Yet, the inhabitants loved every single second of living there, even though at least to most, living there was an obligation to their financial status, still, the majority took pride in it. It was an unexplainable magnetical attraction that dragged most together, the mismatched backgrounds, conflicting dreams sewn together, somewhat representing a quilt, people of different walks of life coming together and forming the less than perfect Belleville. The sense of belonging, that drew characters of different depths of righteousness, of intellect, from the filthy beggar, to the average student, to the weary housewife with more tiredness in her eyes than whatever her "bundles of joy" brought her, sewing them up slightly warped, yet still pieced together, steady and unable to fall apart, with the threads of life. You could see it, they were proud to live here.

And it was on this very day, of course, that I found myself mingling amongst the usual Friday crowd outside the whitewashed school gates. It wasn't a very pleasant experience, the air stinging of an acrid mix of sweat and bodies, and it didn't serve to help my already throbbing head and nauseous tingling in my body. School was bad. It had been, was, and always would be bad, and that was the notion which had been sitting in my mind for the past few years. I had no intention whatsoever of changing it. I did try to keep up my tough reputation, for whom, I had no idea, but that was an unaccomplished feat in this dreary school comprising of crushed dreams and suffocating ambitions. I had tried to make it seem like I had friends, and that I wasn't alone but I knew I wasn't fooling anyone. To be honest with you, I'm pretty sure most kids in school knew or thought of me as a low life loser. I did feel like one too, sometimes when I lay at their feet, struggling against my nerves to keep my breath steady.

Putting two and two together, you would more or less figure out that I was being bullied. It wasn't a simple snide remark made by immature juveniles as opposed to in elementary school, rather it was the brute repercussions of having a fist connect with my face. Repeatedly. It used to be a simple comment on my sexuality, as if they had caught me with a fucking dick in my mouth on the street, or maybe a joke about the kind of jeans I had decided to wear to school and most of the insults were simply groundless accusations. At first, of course. They hurt per se, but for the record, I had simply shrugged most off, not without the aid of constant chanting of calm downs at the back of my mind, and the clenching and unclenching of first. Then came high school. High school brought about many changes. Change was good. But this change brought about an entire different round in the boxing ring of the school food chain, inflicting upon me not only insults and the like of that, but the package deal came with the painfully bruised arms, black eyes, and split lips. I felt myself cringing, thinking of the unpleasant experiences. Fresh in my mind. The constant throbbing and ache at the back of my mind was a nagging reminder of the very affliction of blows to my practically non-existent self esteem.

But of course, these events were simply brushed off as best as possible and placed at the bottom of the hierarchy of important things in my mind, at least for now. It did help that it was a Friday, signalling a few days of jubilation and the green light for my red wounds to heal, left in peace for a miraculous two days.

Leaving the perilous gates of hell- sorry, school, behind, I fumbled around in my pant pocket, searching for the comforting feel of Camel Lights, which seemed to always fit perfectly in the contour of my palm. Coincidence? I think not. It was a nasty habit- smoking- and I think I knew it very well. It left your lungs charred and black and grimy, each puff you take in bringing you a step closed to the morgue. It was ironic how suicide was such a taboo, with mothers shielding their little ones' ears the monent that dreaded 'S' word came up, as if it could be caught by simply hearing the dim whispers of the noun, yet when it was mass produced into the form of chemicals, rolled into little sticks of orange and white, and then packed neatly into boxes of ten, one could simply buy a box of ten at your nearby convenience store, suddenly smoking was okay, even "fun" and "edgy". It irked me to see celebrities glamourize the stick. And how easily they could be bought. Or bought through someone. I wasn't complaining though. Smoking was one of my vices, something I wouldn't be able to survive without, and I wasn't proud of it.

I remember the first time I tried a cigarette, I was but a kid, and in a delirious drunken state of mind, my dad had lit a Malboro and held it up to my lips. I was six, what did you honestly expect me to do? I had been hungry, not just physically of course, but emotionally for my dad's attention and approval, much as I hated to admit it. I foolishly put my lips to the cigarette, regretting the act almost immediately. The smoke had been thick and musty, filling my lungs and throat, with a black cloud. To put it simply, it was disgusting, the soot clinging onto the fibres of my respiratory system, leaving me choking and hacking for a gasp of fresh air. Seeing the look on my father's face though, made me put the hellish stick right back into my mouth, desperately wanting to seem grown up enough to smoke. When my father had finally wrenched the cigarette from my lips, inpatient with my stumbling actions, I thanked the heavens. God, oxygen had never tasted so good in my life, I had thought, gasping in breath after breath of the sweet gas. I promised myself that I would never to near anything of the like for as long as my existence remained. That was years and years ago.

I was 16 now, and as I stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the addictive nicotine in my bloodstream, which would eventually kill me- it was just a matter of time- I realised something. Smoking was a grown up thing alright, young me was right about that, the reasoning behind inaccurate though. Smoking didn't make you grown up, it didn't make you feel empowered. Far from that. Smoking made you feel shitty, you didn't have any control of yourself. Smoking for the addiction was one of the many reasons you brought that burning stick of death to your lips, inhaling them into your bloodstream.

You smoke to forget.

It was a line from a book, somewhere, part of the many novels I had devoured in my quest to fill the void in me. And it made perfect sense.

On this very day, as I struggled to light the burning flame against the strong winds, kind of like me against the world, I leaned back against the red brick wall nearby the school premises. I didn't want to go anywhere. The mall was full of douchebags from school, and home- well, it hadn't been the same since Mom left. I refused to call it what it was. The doctors said it was a severe case of denial, but it didn't really matter, I didn't have to listen to their ramblings. Of course I knew, deep down inside, the awful truth, and I accepted it, but for a long time I thought that maybe if I didn't say it outright, it would make it less real. I still did. It might have worked. Some days it seemed too horrible to be a nightmare, and I lived for those days, when my head was messed up and I didn't have to think about anything or do anything. I just had to be.

Cancer took her, I thought, memories spilling over into my wretched mind, bringing stupid pangs of damned heart ache. Cussing, I quickly gnashed my head against the red brick wall, lifted the cigarette to my lips, and took a long drag, allowing the fumes to wash and sanctify my soul, and make me forget, if only for a moment.


	2. A Life Unlived

I watched as the sphere of flame hung in the sky, as if suspended there by some invisible force began to dip below the Jersey skyline, leaving trails of mixed colours weaving intricately through the vast panorama. Even in this sort of town, you could still find beauty. If you looked. It took the right time, people, place and eyes. It was a beautiful thing, nature, though sadly not many actually bothered slowing down in their individual fast paced rat races to appreciate the stunning mounds of perfectly tethered balance between many factors of nature. Regretfully, I didn't either, hardly did. It was only on extremely rare and hard to come by days like these, when I wasn't trying to fit in, or get beat up, or doing anything that society considered bad, that I did allow my wavering soul to pause and get a breather.

The flame of my cigarette was withering slowly, and before it could completely die out, I allowed it to drop onto the cold, rough gravel of the ground, using the heel of my shoe to snuff the flame out, by grinding it against the ground.

My eyes proceeded to scan the area, a lethargic element seemed to come along with the cold winds, as if brought along by them. Most people were indoors, hiding away from the stinging cold. It was expected; every turn of my face was met with a stinging sensation across from the dropping temperatures, something I had yet to get used to. The street across the area was more or less deserted, most not seeing it worth their time or energy to walk across this desolate place in the middle of the afternoon.

Honestly, I couldn't ever remember a time when I wasn't like this, in a pathetically sad state of mind with a great life to match. It seemed things had been unchanging, the same old routine day by day, without a difference of any sort, yet looking back, a lot had changed.

That was the frightening part. The entire time I had been wallowing in my self pity, using my mum as a lousy excuse, time had simply been sprinting by, pausing not for a second. It was rapidly accelerating, and I had simply looked on, without doing anything. It was slowly slipping past my fingers, and try as I might, I hadn't managed to grasp the pieces between my fingers before they all slipped past, leaving me behind. It was as if the boat had carried all my peers from hesitant adolescents to successful, high performing teenagers, with social lives and good grades to match, leaving me and my bitter self behind, stranded on the shores. And that wasn't even the most frightening part- I was 16, and I had had enough shouting matches with my father to know that once I turned 18, my sorry-ass would be kicked right out of the house; he had assured me of that too.

I wasn't a tad sorry to leave that hell of a hole behind, but the thought of being 18 and homeless scared me my wit's end, as much as I hated admitting it. I wouldn't know what do, simple becoming a dreg of society, looked down upon by everyone. And I wouldn't have anyone to blame. I had nothing on me, I wasn't talented, my grades were shit, I had no friends, and the sprinkles on the top of the ice-cream was the added departure of my Mom.

Ever since she left, I hadn't had any real goal in life, not even that of a driving factor. I just smoked and went to school and listened to music and smoked some more and got drunk.

Yes, I drank- and it wasn't a good habit too, even though after enough of the bitter liquid had slipped down my throat that I felt lightweight and invincible, ready to take on the world, after it was all over and I was sober and left with a horrible hangover from hell, I knew that it wasn't the solution to things, yet I kept doing it. It wouldn't even benefit me. It wasn't just the fact that I was underage, (i stole the stash from my father ) it was the fact that alcohol was temporary, the effects never lasting. I wanted to feel numb and high and I didn't want to give a fuck in the world forever, but forever meant a couple of hours before the euphoria wore down, reality coming back like a bitch, not to mention the surefire hangover. The first time I tried beer wasn't that pleasant either. Bluntly put, it would absolutely revolting, and I had not understood why people would pay to drink this shit. The hot liquid had another taste to itself, something hardly possible to put into words with major demeaning. As I struggled to swallow it, the frothing drink had burned my throat, making me choke. I had wanted to get the nasty taste out of my mouth, but for the unthinkable, I kept drinking.   
I kept going back, my body reliant on the few hours of release it got. I still didn't understand why people drank it though, until I realized something.

I drank to forget.

I wanted to forget. Most of the time even after two cans of the stuff, I had continued to pour the abominable liquid down my throat, lifting it to my lips and repeatedly taking huge gulps, trying as best as possible to ignore the aftertaste, in the hope that I would forget everything about myself, if only for a few hours.

Most of the things I did were to forget. Maybe it was because I didn't have much I wanted to remember.

 

***

 

I walked into the apartment of the 15th floor, panting after climbing a perilous amount of stairs. The lift didn't work, and it was barely a surprise, because nothing did here anyway. The inhabitants of this cluster of apartments were too poor for most people to care about, and they- we were shoved to the edge, unnoticed as the wealthy ones continued their stride in life, pocket getting heavier with the ridiculous amount they made. It wasn't fair, but nothing was.

Entering the place, the all-too-familiar smell of booze and cigarettes hit me, causing me to wrinkle my nose in disgust. It was ironic, how I hated the very smell of it at home, but lived and breathed it out of there.

"Frank Iero!" my father's booming voice, something I had loved as a kid, and hated as a teen reveberated across across the dingy apartment, sparsely furnished with a worn out couch and an unsteady table. The permanent smell of booze lingered in the air, caused by years of drinking and wasting life away. You probably couldn't wash it out even if you gave the place a thorough wash with disinfectant. It was an unremovable part of the place, and needless to say, I detested it.

I signed and turned myself to face the figure draped across the couch in a drunken state of mind. Exasperated, I snapped, "What is it? Are you drunk again?" my ridiculously obvious question hung in the air unanswered.

"I think I deserve to be drunk, with a shitty son like you," he stumbled on, "I saw your results. You- you're a failure-" I stopped listening. I never retaliated, and my coping mechanism was the simple turn of a head and a façade of which I put up, pretending to hear nothing, turning a deaf ear. Granted, I was used to his laboured breaths and sharp insults, most I tried to block out, but sometimes my filter failed me, leaving me unprotected to the brunt of hurt; today was one of those days. I blinked, face flinching in the dimly lit atmosphere, unreadable emotions masking my features. I didn't dare to blow up at him because, well...

I was seven and screaming at him for a petty reason. Something inside him had probably snapped, because the next thing I knew, a stinging sensation has rested itself on the left of my cheek, and my neck was jerked into a painful angle. The mark lasted for days, and though there was no hint of trace of the incident, the emotional scars I had sustained were there, a constant reminder not to aggravate him. My own father had hit me. It was enough to send me crying, and that was saying a lot, because i hardly ever cried. The emotional scars were imprinted now, and had been for a long time, and probably would be for as long as I lived.

He didn't hit me again. But I wouldn't ever forget.

I made my way across the place, towards my tiny room tucked in a corner of the place. It was one of the few things i could call my own, and even that was about to be taken away in less than two years. It was funny, how most teenagers had a blast on their 18th birthday, a prominent step into their adulthood, surrounded by loved ones and extravagant parties while mine would be greeted by a much appreciated present : the prospect of being yet another homeless vagabond on the streets, with hardly a dime to their name. It was a little sad too.

I stepped into the enclosed space and closed the door, all the while hearing the wretched voice of my father on the other side of the mahagony furnishing.

My room was simple, all it held was a small bed large enough for me, a desk which I never touched, and a closet with a few pieces of clothing hanging around. The walls were a cheap whitewashed colour, and the entire place looked sleepy. Looking around, it obviously wasn't a place that had been enjoyed, it barely held the whisper of good memories, the stark lights too strong, and the emotions of the room negative, as far as I could remember. Maybe there was a time when it had held a baby cot, and two smiling parents beaming down at their chubby son, but the as far as I was concerned, it was in the past. That never stopped me from imagining though.

My mom would have picked me up from the cot, cooing softly under her breath, all the while as my smiling dad would look on.

I chuckled.

What a fertile field of an imagination I had.

It was all so different from the reality in which I lived in. I had built the perfect family, drawing it from the imagination I had built up since I was a kid, and in my beautiful fantasy, my mom was still here. She would have been 46 now, and my father would be 49. Perhaps my father would be one of those 9-6pmroutine workers, receiving a salary that was one of the reasons he bothered staying there, yet he would wave his hands and say it was okay, and that he didn't mind working hard for us. And then maybe my mum would hug him, leaving a lipstick stain on his cheek like in all those romantic movies. She would have been a poet, or maybe an artist, any job that provided an outlet for her creative channeling would be suitable for her actually. I would be a straight A student with bright aspects, but then maybe she'd tell me that she and my father would always love me no matter what. She would then embrace my father,and I and then my fantastical happy family would head down to the ice cream shop for some quality time.

It was so sickeningly cliché, yet this was the very thing that I had been unable to catch hold of, before it slipped past too, mocking me like salt to injury every time I conjured up the scene in my mind. Yet I still earned and ached for it.

But the harsh and depressing qualities of real life liked screwing me over, causing all imaginations beforehand to seem like sand thrown into water, faced with the ugly truth, and leaving me to pick up the broken pieces.

My father was a drug dealer. Mostly he sold weed, but if you knew him and you offered him a good price, he'd get you whatever the hell you wanted, no questions asked. He had his connections. He had his suppliers, and he also had his regulars, men of the sort which couldn't survive without chemicals being pumped through their brain and bodies frequently. Reliant on the world in which the drugs pulled them into to escape reality (sounds familiar) my father was quick to take advantage of the situation and make dirty money out of these desolate addicts. It was how we got by. The occasional welfare and the frequent drug deals were what kept me and my father alive. To think that bringing ruin upon others' lives were the very acts of selfishness which, regrettedly or not, kept us alive.

There were times I envied the stable environment of my bullies, how they always had enough to fill their plump bellies, how they didn't have a care in the world (except for punching half my guts out) how they seemed to have it all, as much as I would never ever admit it in front of their condescending egoistic faces. Everything was easy going for them. Unlike my life.

And there was mum who used to be the perfect figure of a loving parent, who could definitely outshine even parents from magazines, her unchanging smile and hair and eyes and arms.

But even those unchanging qualities changed, and I was left without a single person in the world who gave a shit about me. If I ever ended up six feet under the ground no one would turn up at my funeral, considering the huge factor that I even had one. Given my plight, I'd be lucky if anyone even noticed I was dead.

I honestly wished that I had someone to hold me when I was unsteady or even a soul to let me know that I did have something to fall back on, instead, all I had was the vast empty darkness of alcohol and cigarettes.

I drink to forget.

My unsteady legs fumbled about, the weight of the world seemingly on my shoulders, one thing clearly steering the way in my mind, and that was the urge to feel something, anything. Of course, like I usually did, today was no difference, I grasped a can booze from the carton under my bed (stolen) and cracked open the seal.

The hissing sound of booze gushing down my throat, burning and scorching, on its way to rid me of my woes once more and the distinct sound of loneliness were the only things I would care to hear tonight.


End file.
